About the yips
Golf Things Considered column by John Rogers
JSpencerRogers@msn.com
Probably the most dreaded shot in golf is the shank. And the shank, which is when we hit the ball with the neck of the club rather than the clubface, unfortunately travels in herds.
I’ll see a golfer at the driving range hit one or two of the ugly things, the ball squirting off at right angles to the target or rolling disgracefully 20 yards out, and next thing you know, that’s the only shot he can hit. The strange thing is that the person in the next stall will start firing off those disgusting hosel-rockets, too. Soon enough, half of the people at the range will inexplicably start peeling off shots in every direction, and they’ll look around to see if anyone was watching, or they’ll glance accusingly at their clubhead as if their equipment suddenly malfunctioned. Read more
She got game
Story by Chris Graham
Followers of women’s basketball know the significance of the numbers IX and 10.
“IX” refers to Title IX, the landmark federal law that in 1972 mandated that schools, colleges and universities provide equal funding to men’s and women’s sports.
“10,” of course, relates to the 10th season of the Women’s National Basketball Association, which was founded in the aftermath of the run of the U.S. Women’s National Team to the gold medal in the 1996 Atlanta Games.
You might be surprised to learn what the number “1892″ means to the history of women’s basketball.
Give up? That’s the year that the first women’s game was played – three months after James Naismith put up the first peach basket.
“Most people who follow women’s basketball can go back to the days of Nancy Lieberman and Ann Meyers – but anything before Title IX is beyond them,” said John Molina, a Connecticut man who is leading an effort to launch a museum dedicated to the history of women’s hoops.
The 80 years that preceded Title IX were a roller-coaster ride – with the game alternately flourishing and waning depending on the mores of the times.
“The early women’s game was very sedate by today’s standards – but at that point in time, in the Victorian Era, to have women doing something at all physical out on a court with a ball was quite revolutionary,” said Susan Shackelford, the co-author of Shattering the Glass: The Dazzling History of Women’s Basketball from the Turn of the Century to the Present.
The roots were put down in women’s colleges in the Northeast in the 1890s – and in short order the sport, different from its male counterpart in that women played six players to a side, with three players on each side of halfcourt, became so popular that school administrators became worried that “the women were not showing the proper decorum, that they were sweating too much, that they were too aggressive, they were too jazzed up about competition,” Shackelford said.
“Even though the notion of what a woman could do physically had broadened, and basketball was a good example of that, the social notion of what a woman should act like didn’t really encompass competitive sports. So to be a proper lady of the time, you couldn’t be but so competitive – you couldn’t be but so active,” Shackelford told The Augusta Free Press.
Women’s basketball didn’t die off, though – the game by the early years of the 20th century had also caught on in working-class communities in the Northeast, the South and into the Midwest where women played a different role in the prevailing social order.
“There was a much broader notion of what women could and couldn’t do in these working-class and black communities,” Shackelford said.
“If black women, for example, were going to be out in the fields pulling cotton all day, which they were apt to do, in the South, anyway, to go run up and down a basketball court was nothing. And in working-class communities, blue-collar communities, the women and the girls worked – hard, physical labor – either in mills or in industrial settings or even just in the community in some regard, just to get by. So again, playing basketball was no great shake,” Shackelford said.
Molina’s grandmother, Bernice Molina, was one of the thousands of women who played organized basketball in the first golden age of women’s hoops in the 1930s. At the game’s highest level was a professional touring team known as The All-American Redheads – who routinely took out the all-male teams who served as their nightly competition.
“They played over 200 games a season. They traveled around from town to town – playing against men and playing by men’s rules. And they were really popular – they used to get thousands of people at their games,” Molina told the AFP.
The Redheads survived well into the Title IX era – after weathering the storm in the 1950s and 1960s that saw the social gains of women in the Depression and World War II years reversed to a great degree.
“The game saw a downturn in participation after World War II. The nation went very conservative – and people didn’t by and large see sports as a great opportunity for women,” Shackelford said.
“They thought that women ought to be at home, raising children, doing things close to home and hearth. There was very much a narrowing of the perceptions of the roles of women in society after the war – and basketball was one of those things that was hurt by this,” Shackelford said.
The passage and implementation of Title IX in the 1970s didn’t change those attitudes overnight, by any means. Barbara Kelly, the first women’s basketball coach and director of women’s sports at the University of Virginia, remembers being informed that she had $27,000 to cover operating expenses for her entire athletics program.
“We had to find facilities, we had to find equipment, I had to arrange the schedules, we had to find officials, had to find uniforms, we had to plan transportation,” Kelly said in an interview for Mad About U: Four Decades of Basketball at University Hall, by Chris Graham and Patrick Hite, which is set for release in October.
And Kelly also had to make sure that her team’s games didn’t run too long. More than once, Kelly told the authors of Mad About U, someone representing the men’s team would approach her on the sidelines in the middle of a game and ask her to get the players off the floor so the men’s team could begin warming up for a practice or a game.
Within a few years of the passage of Title IX, though, it seemed that a sea change had occurred. Colleges and universities began offering scholarships to women’s basketball players in the late 1970s – around the same time that an Ohio-based entrepreneur, Bill Byrne, put into motion a plan that led to the development of the first women’s professional sports league, the Women’s Pro Basketball League.
“He figured that with Title IX fully implemented that that meant there was going to be an explosion in girls’ and women’s sports – and he figured that one place that would manifest itself was in team sports like basketball. So he specifically had Title IX in mind when he founded the league,” said Karra Porter, the author of Mad Seasons: A History of the first Women’s Professional Basketball League, a chronicle of the WBL years.
The league played for three seasons – from 1978 to 1981 – before a lack of national media exposure led to its ultimate doom.
“They had to overcome a lot of assumptions about women’s basketball. I mean, believe it or not, some people, even including news reporters, still thought they were playing the halfcourt game. You have to remember, the halfcourt game really only went by the wayside in 1972 – and in some places it was a lot later than that. They had to overcome all of these perceptions about women’s basketball and women athletes,” Porter told the AFP.
The pioneers of the early years of college basketball and the WBL are cognizant of the fact that today, 34 years into the Title IX era, a decade into the run of the WBL’s successor, the WNBA, that battle is far from being over.
“There are still miles to go,” said Rosemarie Skaine, the author of Women College Basketball Coaches, which examines the history of women’s basketball from the 1890s forward.
“Those who were in the game before and after Title IX see it as having come light-years ahead of where it was before. When you look back in the beginning, they had to keep men out of the games, and they had to wear these ridiculous uniforms. Things were better, but there were still restrictions,” Skaine told the AFP.
“In my own experience as a player growing up in Nebraska, we played intramurally – we didn’t play teams from other schools. And then it was only a couple weeks of the year – or whatever they would allow in their curriculum for basketball. There wasn’t much opportunity, really, to participate. You had a couple of weeks of basketball, and then you had to go into flag step clubs and cheer the guys. There was a girls’ athletics association – but basically you ended up redecorating the health room or something like that. It’s a different world now,” Skaine said.
“There may be miles that we still have to go – but we’ve come a long way, I think, by allowing people to develop,” Skaine said.
(Published 07-31-06)
Beached wail
Stop the Presses column by Chris Graham
I don’t know why I ever left.
“I’m not leaving. Ever. I mean it,” I said to no one in particular, sipping a strawberry daiquiri on the beach.
It was … a revelation.
“I could do this forever, literally,” I said, again to no one in particular.
In my one hand was the daiquiri. In the other was a book, my second of the week.
I had just gotten done with a 20-mile bike ride to the main strip at Virginia Beach.
And I was about to pig out, literally, on a heaping plate of pork barbecue at a restaurant 50 feet from the condo my wife and I were staying in.
“This is how life is supposed to be.”
For the record, I wasn’t talking with the missus about this because she was back in the condo taking a nap.
This is what you call takin’ it easy, ladies and germs.
“What do you mean, you want another cowboy hat?” she had asked me the night before.
While I was shopping for my second cowboy hat of the vacation trip.
All my life, I had gone ohfer on cowboy hats – and now suddenly, I couldn’t get enough of them.
“I need an orange one. To wear to football games,” I explained.
The logic made sense at the time.
As did the logic of playing 54 holes of miniature golf one evening – before spending a couple of hours at an arcade playing air hockey and a football game that tests one’s ability to throw the ball through an array of targets.
“I could get up in the morning,” I laid out the plan for our future as we watched the sun set, daiquiris again in hand, “take the dog for a walk, come back, get my laptop, write here on the beach, of course breaking for lunch, then call it quits around six, and …”
You can tell that I gave this a lot of thought, can’t you?
Oh, yes – this is the plan.
Take over the media world, publish 10 bestsellers, maybe make a run at the White House, then retire at 50 and live the good life.
It’s going to be a busy next 16 years – but it’s going to happen.
Football, Canadian style
Story by Chris Graham
Jack Bedell is, by day, a poet and college professor in Louisiana.
On nights and weekends, though, Bedell is a football fanatic – and his football of choice is Canadian.
“Everything that we like in the modern era about the NFL, and then with the rise in popularity of the Arena League and Arena2, those are the things that the Canadian league has been based on – the wide-open passing game, the multiple-receiver sets, the use of running backs as much more diverse players than just someone to be just a three-yards-and-a-cloud-of-dust-type player. I think all of that stuff is the 100 percent backbone of the CFL – and makes for an exciting audience game,” said Bedell, an English professor at Southeastern Louisiana University and regular contributor to CFLInsider.com.
“The pace of the game is great. With a 20-second time clock instead of a 40-second clock, with only one timeout per half – the pace of the game is incredible. All of the things that we kind of complain about as American NFL fans are taken care of in the rules system and have been for 30 years in the CFL,” Bedell told The Augusta Free Press.
The Canadian Football League is indeed alluring to fans in the United States – and to U.S.-based college and professional players, who have long viewed the close cousin of American football as an outlet for jumpstarting or extending their football careers.
Because of the differences in the two games – the CFL field is 10 yards longer and 12 yards wider than the field used in the National Football League, and CFL games are played with 12 players on the field for each team, one more than the number of players per team on the field in the NFL – players overlooked by the NFL as being supposedly undersized are valued in Canada, where the emphasis is not as much on size as it is on speed and quickness.
“The players whose skillsets are not necessarily what are prestenciled-in to the NFL scouts’ clipboards definitely benefit from the more wide-open game,” Bedell said.
“You’ve got rush ends who are 6-1, 225, 230 – your Dwight Freeney types – who are playing on every team up there. It’s the rare occasion when a Dwight Freeney gets drafted high in the NFL. Most of the time, players that size with that skillset are overlooked and have to really fight and claw to get on an NFL roster as unsigned free agents. In Canada, it’s the lifeblood of defense – with the size of the field and defensive schemes that are played by every team,” Bedell said.
Offensive players who are considered undersized also benefit from the more wide-open game played in the CFL. Wide receiver Kerry Watkins was written off as too small (5-10, 183 pounds) coming out of Georgia Tech – but he has flourished in Canada, catching 97 passes for 1,364 yards for Montreal in 2005 to emerge as a breakout star in his second season up north.
“The way the game is played up here, we’re throwing it pretty much 90 percent of the time. It’s a receivers’ league, and that’s what we love about it,” Watkins told the “ACC Nation” radio show in an interview last month.
“It’s extremely fun. You enjoy it. It’s almost like a track meet. You’re running constantly, so you pay the price. But it all pays off,” Watkins said.
Former North Carolina quarterback Darian Durant – a 5-11, 214-pounder who spent part of the 2005 season on the practice roster of the NFL’s Baltimore Ravens – differs with Watkins in his assessment of the CFL as a “receiver’s league.”
“It’s a quarterback’s league,” Durant told “ACC Nation” earlier this month.
“The main thing is just getting adjusted to having an extra guy on the field,” Durant said of the key difference in the style of play. “They play with 12 guys up here – and most of the time it’s an extra defensive back. So that’s the main thing. The field is a little wider, so of course you have to be careful with some of the throws that you make.
“It kind of takes me back to my high-school days – when I played with four or five wide receivers every down. It’s definitely something that a quarterback would love to do,” Durant said.
Fans in the States have long had the opportunity to follow former college stars like Durant and Watkins in the CFL – CFL games were broadcast for years on ESPN and ESPN2 before moving to America One and several regional sports channels in the current decade.
The league famously tried to capitalize on the Stateside fan interest by expanding into the U.S. in the 1990s – though to say that the move didn’t exactly work out would be an understatement.
“I wasn’t surprised that it didn’t work,” said Steve O’Brien, the author of The Canadian Football League: The Phoenix of Professional Sports Leagues, which traces Canadian football back to its origins in the 19th century.
“They’ve always tried to have a U.S. presence – but that’s not why they did this expansion,” O’Brien told the AFP. “The CFL was essentially bankrupt in ’92 – so they were trying to find new revenues. And they didn’t have the luxury of time, and they didn’t have the luxury of properly checking out owners. Basically, they didn’t do their homework.”
O’Brien and Bedell agree that the expansion could have been a success had it not been for the fact that the league tried to place teams in markets that didn’t seem to be a logical fit.
“It could’ve worked in some markets – but going into the Deep South like they did with Shreveport, Memphis and Birmingham, and then in ’95, Las Vegas, that was a disaster waiting to happen,” O’Brien said.
“I thought it was a curious move to come down to the South. It was a curious choice not to try Michigan or Maine or Portland – places where at least people could put their rabbit ears up and catch Canadian games. It looks like that would have been the cities that they picked – but they chose to come down South in markets that are college markets to us. I think that had as much to do with the failure of those franchises as anything – that they came down to a place where Alabama and Auburn rules, or Shreveport, which is just not a city capable of maintaining a professional team,” Bedell said.
There is talk yet again, O’Brien said, of adding perhaps two U.S.-based teams to the league – to augment the noticeably skinny lineup of eight franchises that are competing for the Grey Cup in 2006.
“If you listen to the league propaganda, the league has never been healthier – the sponsorship revenues are up, the TV ratings are at an all-time high, they’re drawing younger fans to the stands and to the TV. Everything on that front looks good,” O’Brien said.
“It’s been a steady buildup almost from the last decade – from the time they got the loan from the NFL. They were on death’s door by the time of the ’96 Grey Cup – and then little by little, they clawed their way back,” O’Brien said.
“Canadian football has been around since the time the country was founded – back in the 1860s,” O’Brien said. “One point that I tried to get across in the book was that no matter what the CFL does to itself, or what anybody tries to do to it, it has this uncanny knack for survival – and it’s proven that more than once.”
That, among many things, is what is appealing about Canadian football to the American poet-professor Bedell.
“I think it can only grow in terms of its fan base in the States – especially with the television exposure that it’s getting right now,” Bedell said.
“More and more fans who have DirecTV or Comcast or Fox can pick these games up – and even though it’s not really well marketed down here, once they see that every roster is full of big-time NCAA talent or players that might have had a cup of coffee in the NFL, I think they would get hooked,” Bedell said.
“If you watch 10 minutes of a CFL game, I think that’s enough to sell any football fan,” Bedell said.
(Published 07-17-06)
Dumb and dumber
Stop the Presses column by Chris Graham
I was taking in some TV the other day when it occurred to me …
“Yeah. America is getting dumbed down.”
I couldn’t recall where I’d first heard that – funny, huh, that this was the case, considering how I was thinking about how dumb we’re all getting?
Oh, and I almost forgot – I had professional wrestling on the tube while I was musing on this topic.
No, it was NASCAR.
I remember now – it was a Larry the Cable Guy DVD.
For the record, it wasn’t Larry the Cable Guy who was guilty of planting this seed in my head regarding this whole we’re-dumbing-ourselves-down discussion.
Seriously, I can’t see Larry wanting to prattle on about how dumb we all are.
“My sister’s covered with moles.”
Cracks me up every time.
I digress.
Ahem.
As I was saying, we’re dumbing down, y’all.
It might be strange for me to say, but I’m OK with this.
I mean, sure, I get frustrated when Darrell Waltrip insists that the track is moving because the cars driving by a camera installed on the retaining wall cause said camera to jump back and forth.
And then there’s that whole thing about wrestling – excuse me, rasslin – where the referee gets distracted while the bad guy hits the good guy over the head with a metal folding chair to score the pin, and, well, the ref didn’t see it, so it counts.
Of course, I was watching the World Cup the other day – i.e. the sport favored by Eurosnobs – and saw a French player headbutt an Italian rival in the middle of the pitch.
My initial reaction was – “All right! Some action! It’s about friggin’ time!”
And then I overheard the color commentator getting upset when the guy got thrown out of the game.
“I don’t think the referee saw that directly. And if he saw it on the replay scoreboard, well …”
That, folks, would be what Jim Ross and Jerry “The King” Lawler get riled up about every Monday night.
So …
Maybe the ref does have to see it for it to count – I get it now.
(Call me a rasslin snob now. Hoo boy.)
And maybe the track is moving – Darrell, I’m sorry I ever doubted you.
And yes, DW, I’ll make sure to watch out the next time I’m driving in my Geo Metro to make sure that I am neither too tight or too loose – because I understand from you that both can be bad, depending on the conditions.
And while my sister isn’t covered with moles, I have two first cousins named Junior, an uncle named Junior, another named Boogie, a third named Bunny, relatives who work in prisons and serve time in them – and yet somehow, some way, I found my way not only onto a college campus, but managed to graduate.
Let’s see your average soccer-worshipping, Formula One-watching, wine-and-cheese-eating Eurosnob overcome those odds.
Tipping point
Stop the Presses column by Chris Graham
I wasn’t certain if I was supposed to tip the guy or not.
“That’ll be six-fifty,” the vendor answered after I had inquired as to the availability of a beer at the Washington Nationals baseball game that I attended over the weekend.
It was fortuitous that he had walked by moments earlier hawking brews. I had been thinking about making a trip to the concession stand a little earlier, and decided against it – mainly because, well, I’m a lazy slob.
There. I said it.
I handed the guy ten dollars – still thinking about the issue of tips.
And then he handed me back my change.
Three dollars.
Notice how I didn’t report my change as three dollars and fifty cents.
“I guess this answers my question about whether or not he gets a tip,” I muttered to myself as he stalked away, steaming.
The guy, for the record, didn’t even give me a chance to up the offer – which I had been contemplating doing, until he stiffed me on the extra two bits, that is.
About an hour earlier, one of my traveling buddies took on the responsibility of tipping the usher who led us to our seats.
“Did you give that give a tenspot?” I asked Jimbo, who shrugged it off as no big deal.
OK, so the man had helped us find row six, seats five, six, seven and eight – and even taken out a towel and wiped off the seats before we sat down.
But … come on.
You tip somebody for that now?
I’m not too sure about this.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m a big tipper, in my own mind, anyway, when I go out to restaurants – using as my own standard the measure of 25 percent of the check as the gratuity of choice.
I always thought of myself as generous in doing that, I should say – though I learned on another recent trip to D.C. that I must be well behind the times.
“What … was the service not up to your liking?” a waiter huffed at me after I left him $9 on a $30 check.
That’s 30 percent, doing some quick math.
“Er …” I tried to spit out, to no avail.
“I can’t believe you’d leave this as a tip – unless you thought I did something horribly wrong,” the waiter scoffed, then floated away.
He had a point – and the more I thought about, the more I realized that he wasn’t the only person that I’d stiffed.
I didn’t leave anything for the person who seated me at the table, for instance.
Ditto for the cook back in the kitchen who prepared my meal.
Not to mention the cashier who rang up the ticket – and the person who changed the urinal cake in the men’s restroom.
Another sign of the times, I suppose.
Either way, it looks like I’m going to have to take on a second job – just so that I can afford all the tips that everybody has their hands out expecting to get.
A Rush to judgment
Stop the Presses column by Chris Graham
It’s time that somebody says this – so here goes.
Leave Rush Limbaugh alone.
Got it?
I know what the liberal media is trying to get you to believe, but …
Good, we’re on the same page.
The guy’s a blowhard, sure – I’ll concede that.
He once tried a joke on his ill-fated TV show in which he referred to teen Chelsea Clinton as “the White House dog.”
Which is to say, he’s an ass – no, worse.
I mean, he calls his listeners dittoheads.
I can’t imagine how arrogant he has to be on a personal level to even think in those terms.
I digress.
I wanted to stick up for Rush here.
Ahem.
So he has a bad back – and he went doctor-shopping to try to relieve the pain.
Honestly, that’s a crime?
Yes, technically it is.
I understand that.
Same (ditto?) for the bottle of Viagra that he had with him in his luggage that had actually been prescribed in someone else’s name.
No, no – can’t do that.
That all having been said, who’s the real victim in this?
(Aside from whoever is on the other end of him deciding that he needed to have a Viagra bottle in his luggage, that is. Seriously, this is a mental picture that none of us needed to have seared into our mind’s eye forever. Ugh.)
Yeah, I know – you bluster on and on and on like Rush does about other people’s immorality and bad choices and the rest, and you’re bound to get burned when it turns out that you’re not the choir boy that you had implied that you were.
But back to what I was trying to get at with this – I can at least identify with having a bad back, because I’ve had to work through those issues myself after injuring myself playing basketball a few years ago.
And let me tell you – it’s no fun.
And while I can’t say the same about what would lead one to seek Viagra as a medical solution, um …
Er …
OK, I admit it – I snickered when I heard the news, and I’m snickering now as I try to finish this column.
(Insert one-liner about how right apparently doesn’t always make might … here.)
Even so, like I was saying before, please, leave Rush alone.
Even if it’s fun kicking the big bad bully while he’s down.
Fat chance
Stop the Presses column by Chris Graham
Isn’t it weird how much we worry about the fact that we’re fat?
And don’t think that we don’t all spend way too much time on this.
“Hannah says I’m fat,” my 7-year-old niece Rachel said, referring to criticisms from her sister, who is exactly one pound lighter, at 50 pounds, than her twin – and already thinking about how she’s going to shed that excess baggage.
“I’m going to become a vegetarian,” Hannah announced to me yesterday, explaining why she didn’t want a hamburger at the cookout that we had at the palatial Graham Estate in honor of Independence Day.
(That she was eating a hot dog as she said the words wasn’t at all ironic – we all know hot dogs aren’t meat-based, and haven’t been for a long time.)
So second-graders are weight-conscious these days – isn’t that just wonderful?
I can imagine how our caveman forebears would take this news.
“Me not worried about being fat. Me worried about sabre-toothed tiger. Them tigers getting faster and faster. Oh, and worried finding enough grubs and berries to increase life expectancy past 15. Yep, them more important worries than being fat.”
Heck, most of the rest of the world doesn’t have this problem that we have. When your annual income is in the range of $20 a year, for instance, I don’t know, there’s just not a lot of money in the family budget for Applebee’s and Little Debbie cakes.
At least folks in that situation don’t have to worry about finding money in the budget for gym memberships.
“Yeah, I’m just in here trying to sweat a little,” I caught myself saying to somebody at the Waynesboro YMCA the other morning.
I have to pay to sweat, for those keeping score at home, because my job – which pays me quite well, mind you – has me sitting at a desk coming up with witticisms and other musings on issues of the day.
(The sound you hear is of my burgeoning butt getting … wider.)
I could eliminate the need for the middle man, I realize, by giving up writing and working out in the fields to grow my own food – thus getting plenty of exercise and building for myself a diet high in nutrients and low in snack cakes.
(I’m guessing that they don’t grow Zebra Cakes in the field, anyway. Correct me if I’m wrong there.)
There’s only one problem with that – air conditioning.
If I could figure out a way to get air conditioning out into the fields that I would be working for myself – oh, and I would need plenty of bottled water, too; and I wouldn’t want to work too hard, if you know what I mean, so we’ll have to do something there – I’d be game for a return to the way things used to be.
Who’s with me on this?
The merits of the new NBA age restriction
Story by Chris Graham
Michael McCann, like the rest of us, assumed that the talk about how NBA players who had entered the league straight out of high school were ruining the professional game was at least somewhat on target.
So when the law professor began to notice that his research into the impact of the influx of teen-agers on the NBA wasn’t going the way he assumed it would, he did a doubletake. Read more

















To bee, or not to bee
Posted July 28, 2006
Stop the Presses column by Chris Graham
I thought a snake was gnawing on my leg.
“Ai-i-i-i-i-i-i-eeeee!” I screamed, uncontrollably, before looking down and noticing that it wasn’t a snake that was gnawing on me, but an overly aggressive yellow jacket.
Not long after the little bugger got me for the fourth or fifth time, I found myself in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV.
“That’s one of the worst hives that I’ve seen,” the doc told me as he ordered up the treatment.
I was floored at what had taken place – given that I had never known myself to be allergic to bees.
Either way, I had a growth on my left thigh the size of a Volkswagen – the doctor described it to me as “the venom ran up your leg, and that’s where your white blood cells got their resources together to launch a counterattack.”
So my thigh was a battlefield – and Gettysburg, honestly, wasn’t any uglier than this scene.
Neither was it uglier than this one – “So go ahead and slip this gown on so the doctor can examine you,” the nurse said to me, handing me a tiny piece of cloth that was ostensibly designed to serve as a cover of some sort.
I’m just hoping that there weren’t any hidden cameras in there anywhere.
Honestly, the sight of my oversized derriere hanging out the back of a skimpy piece of hospital-issue negligee isn’t going to get many hits on your favorite celebrity-expose Web site.
And then I had to sit there and wait 20 minutes for the doctor to drop in and check me out.
The whole time thinking, “I’ve got to fart.”
Yes, I admit it – the only thing I could think of was that which we all worry about in these kinds of situations.
I’m at least fessing up to it.
Ahem.
I didn’t, for the record – nor did I wimper too much when the lady stuck the needle in my right hand to prepare for the IV.
“He is clenching his toes, though,” a second nurse in the room for the episode pointed out, for posterity.
The IV drip included, by doctor’s orders, a steroid – which I thought was fortuitous, given my appearance at a charity softball game scheduled for the weekend.
“Now I can hit home runs,” I told the missus, who was not at all amused at my attempts at making light at what was probably a much more serious health situation than I was ready to concede.
I didn’t find that out until the wife came back with the prescription that the doc had written for me – and informed me that it was for something that I was supposed to inject in my thigh while on my way to the hospital in the event of another one of these bee stings.
“This apparently buys you enough time to get to the hospital,” she said she was told.
So I have a choice between jabbing myself with a long needle and … death.
It’ll be interesting to see what I decide there – if this ever comes to pass, of course.
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